Mustadar Spiritwalker
"You know.....I think he....likes fat chicks...." -Ograhan Frostfist Physical Description This odd, huge figure before you looks rather off, and out of place. His entire figure is tall, and extremely wide, even for his height. Rather top heavy, his broad, broad shoulders span easily two or three elves'. His barrel chest and thick mid section show him as one with great physical prowess. His armor, huge, and bulky, is often a reminder of this. With few scratches, but a few extremely large in some areas, he seems to be one who wouldn't shy away from an all out brawl. His entire suit of armor, and more often his blade, is cleaned and polish almost constantly. No longer shining, from too much use, but spotless. Aside from scratches and divets, of course. His stocky form looks extremely tight, standing upright at all times, looking extremely serious and stressed at nearly all times of the day. If one were to see him with the one he loves, this may change though. His hair is average, being of medium length, with a very long, braided beard. It weaves down his front almost to his waist, being kept in a black braid. Tightly woven, he never finds the time to get it right, but it's good enough. He is often boasting of it even "outdoing dwarves", stroking it when in deep thought. He has two chops going down the sides of his face, all of this hair being grayish, and plush. Along with these physical characteristics, one would instantly notice his face. Like a buffalo, his visage is flat, with a long nose, not pointing out. His entire body is covered in a longer, thicker fur, and his mane being fluffy in nature. A taunka! With shorter horns, pointing outwards, he attempts to look fearsome, but has a fluffy cuddly look in reality. His armor and blade, like most Acheruns, is thick, heavy, and almost always dark, to give that menacing, terrible appearance. His eyes are, yes, blue, Being a death knight like so many others. Seeming rather fresh, his body hasn't accumulated any decomposition, being frozen for nearly all of his days as a corpse. His body is lukewarm, this changing usually with the temeperature around him, not really having any control over it. His innards do not work, having no pulse, and no fluids pumping. Though his stomache is still very much intact, it wouldn't do much more than quickly dissolve anything he throws in it. Two working taste buds! Woohoo! His runeblade is that of the Ebon Blade, being long, and sharp. The black steel is elegantly carved, having six runes among the odd carvings. They glowed like eerie pale moons, their glow enpowering when the bull is in combat, readying themselves to be exerted for his horrible spells. Personality His appearance is stiflingly similar to his personality. Raised into a life of cold ruthless weather, and to hunt endlessly to keep his clan afloat, he is no newcomer to hard labor, and often prefers to do things himself. Seeing much joy in other people, he tries to act as a guardian to his friends and pupils. He is often more warm of a death knight than most will ever see, having a certain stoic quality to him. He is -the- Alpha male. Don't get in his way, or he'll issue a stern talking to! But really. Seriously, he has horns. He finds politics rather boring, and tends to think of himself selfishly in the right places. A sense of honor always remains in this fallen Brave, finding a lacking in his former life. The attitude of his fervor is very intense, trying to solve a problem quickly without thinking of the later effects. He welcomes undeath, like most things, as a new way of life. It is the only way he, and his people can survive, and he will defend his way of life. At least, that's his philosophy. Somewhat of a shaman in life, He has developed a responsible approach at the undead, using only corpse dust, and never unleashing his minions unless needed. His ignorance is positively astounding, having no knowledge of Horde culture in the slightest, and finding it hard to cope in many situations. Even slapping the hand of a man trying to shake his. Even to trying to find mammoth tusks for a woman he cares for, but later being told flowers were a better approach. He finds the Taunka and Tauren to be very similar, and having no real differences in anything but the generosity of the Spirits between their cultures. Backround Born in the harsh environment of the north wastes, Mustadar has become a very strong, cunning individual, developing a natural sense of right or wrong from his heritage. His father, a shaman, wished for his son to take the same path, teaching him the ways of the spirits, and to give them enough hesitant respect to earn their understanding. His mother, a rather abrasive woman, was a very strong, large woman. Often considered "big boned" by her family, she welcomed Bolor into her life, and soon, they became lovers, marrying to eachother through their ancient rituals. One thing lead to another, and the woman was pregnant, only enpowering the two's union. Mustadar was born, rather larger, and well fed, due to his mother's weight. His youth was rather uneventful, spending most of his time in the camp's inn, where mothers would raise their children. At the age of fourteen, he was brought through the wastes by his father, learning the land very well, and eventually hunting, and killing a rhino calf on his own, dragging the carcass back to his village, as his father smiled approvingly. Afterwards, his right to be an official member of the village was complete, and was taught the ways of the spirits by the camp's leader, and his father. Under their tutilage, he and a friend of his, Ograhan, were brought up as very powerful callers of the elements. Legends of the Far Wastes "They call him the bringer of hope. In times of famine and death, he brought our people back from the dark ages. We thank him for his kindness and generosity." -Rolor Spiritwalker One evening, Mustadar and Ograhan had decided to attempt the slaying of one of the storm giants to the south, thinking it a great feat, and a test of wills. After a long journey, the young bulls made a camp, stalking a huge giant's footsteps carefully, before finding him the next morning in a cave. Carcasses of carabou, rhino, and mammoths littered the area, a large fireplace set up to roast these animals. The tauren looked on at the strange setting, before stepping slowly into the caves, searching silently for the giant. WHAM! the giant jumps down from a large ledge, roaring menacingly, the two tauren were caught completely off guard, knocked to their backs from the shockwave, and scrambling to get up. It was, unfortunately, too late, as the giant picked up the two taunka him either hands, glaring at them. "Why you in my cave?! Hm!? You think it funny to follow me?!" The two bulls looked at eachother, in awe of the fact this being could even talk, let alone speak their language. "Little earthen! Grrrar!" "You seek to bring me into imprisonment?!" The giant's sight obviously wasn't too good, but the looked up to him as he said this. "We're not those dirt-people! We're Taunka! Please, we're sorry we disturbed you! It won't happen again!" The storm giant glared to them, squeezing them. They screamed in agony. "Please! We'll leave, and never come back! We're spirit talkers! Please!" pleaded Mustadar. "Spirit talkers....?" the giant piped up. "Yes! You known, storm bringers, fire callers, tree talkers!" Mustadar reasoned. "Storm bringers...?" The giant squinted, he blinked, releasing his grip slightly, eyes wide. "Oh....You no earthen......Heh....You bison-men! I've heard such great stories!" The giant chuckled, sitting on a huge boulder. "Is it true that Stormhoof killed the North Wind? That was such a nice story. Grish hate the North Wind..." he stared again. "Oh yes! Of course! We've heard the tales of Stormhoof, but tell me, where've you heard it?" Ograhan asked. "Me a Storm Giant! All my kind know the tale! Why do you think we're called STORM giants?! Haha!" The giant grinned, teeth green and yellow, a few missing. He set the two down. "Oh...Right...We Taunka always assumed you were our enemies....We apologize for coming here, It really was Musta's idea! I swear! We won't try to hurt you again!" Mustadar quickly glared at his friend, who smiled up to the giant. "Oh, it fine. I'm sorry, I had no idea you were one of the hoof people. Here! Take a mammoth carcass back with you, I've already eaten today." The giant pointed to a extremely -huge- mammoth body, nearly completely in tact. The tusks! Oh my, The tusks. Pristine and perfect, gleaming in the dimly lit cave. The two would be revered for the next decade if they were to bring such an intact body back to their village. "That?! You're -giving- us that?! Yes! It was my idea!" Mustadar smacked Ograhan accordingly, and the two bowed their heads to the kind giant. "Oh yes, please, Take it! Feel free to return to my cave, little bisons." The two began preparing ropes and a rather odd contraption, used by the Taunka to carry large amounts of cargo across snow. They prepared to leave, thanking the giant, grinning all the way back to their camp. The entire village was in an uproar! After many long months of hunger, the entire village had enough supplies to last them through the harshest weeks. Fires, songs, dances, a whole celebration of feasting and thanking for the two heroes who brought the -biggest- mammoth from the wastes, his plump mother delightfully packing on the pounds during this harsh winter season. In due time, they were known as legends. Call to Arms: The Magnataur The ancient beasts of Northrend do not relent. Not for anyone. Nor does anyone relent against them. The constant struggle for survival has vanquished many many beings, and these harsh wastes are completely unforgivable. The spirits would fight against their own children, destroying them, for reasons unknown to most. The Taunka have mustered the strength to bully back the spirits into helping them. In due time, the fearsome Magnataur had become a great force in the land, the Taunka quickly becoming their biggest enemy. Cannibalism is generally frowned upon by pre-burgers. Anyways, The far reaches of the Storm Peaks hid many mysteries. Nearby hunters had noticed a large group of roaming Magnataur, forming what could be thought of as a clan. They raided a nearby encampment, and desecrated the nearby burial caves. The Taunka chieftan at the time was extremely angered, affronted by the mere idea of the spirits of her ancestors being defiled. The Taunka rallied every able bodied clansmen to march into what is now the Snowdrift plains, the past gathering place for these wretched creatures. They marched through the snowy plains, a blizzard coming through, a small taureness being the only casualty during the march. She lost her leg from frostbite. After a long, tiresome journey, they quickly ran in, through a small ravine, stealthily manuervering closer and closer to what is now the Frozen Mine. They camped there for the night, gathering their strength to charge north, and rid the world of the only organized Magnataur on the continent. This all was obviously long before the havoc of Loken and his Iron Dwarves, as most of this territory was all open for animals and the Taunka. The Taunka rode out the next morning, all manner of stone and leather weaponry and armor. Achers, Hunters, Shamans, and great warriors all alike. The Braves of Tunka'lo they were known as. Mustadar wore this title proudly, fighting alongside his brethren for the first time. After all this tension, The Tauren crept across the wastes to the Magnataur. A scout had spotted them! A toothy grin on his face, he roared out, before a hunter shot an arrow right into his shoulder. He growled menacingly, charging at them. The battle had begun! After the beast was slain, the tauren each took a look at their surroundings. Dozens of Magnataur lined the cliffs, and hills. Completely surrounded, The braves looked around in desperation. The taunka had a few tricks up their sleeves. But MAGNATAUR? They began roaring, charging out in all directions, many slaughtered by the fire callers. The situation was grim, all hope was lost. Then, something happened, the Magnataur did not intend by any means. Grish, and his beloved wife roaring wildly, charging at the scene, huge weaponry in both of their hands. Mustadar blinked, smiling as he gazed upon his old friend's face. The entire uproar stopped, staring at the Stampeding giants, they all panicked! The Magnataur leader, Hragadon, had not percieved that he would even need to lift a finger to slay these interlopers. The chieftain pulled out a horn, blowing into the thing, as two rather small, wide magnataur lessers walked around from a small hill, being hidden. They had chains in their hands, but what the chains were attached to made even the giants begin to blink. The chain pulled up, and up, and up. At this point in the story, one begins to wonder. "Why not just run away?" Well, obviously, if they did that, there wouldn't be a story to tell! The chain pulled up finally, to reveal the face of a rather ugly beats. Blue faced, with thick, bristly white fur. Legends spoke of these things. The bear giants. Huge mutts, often mistaken for Storm Giants, were rather Wendigo. They are very tall to the North, but extremely scarce. The chaos of such a sight was mighty, seeing such titans charge at eachother, Grish turned to charge right at the bastard of a beast, the thing roaring, and standing on it's hind legs, beating on it's chest. The floor began to move, small earthquakes from all of the stomping around. The shaking broke most of the original fight up, everyone nearly falling to their bums. The female that was with him, considerably small, when compared to the Wendigo, ran to them. Nothing but her forehead and eyes could be seen under her thick, hooded coat of rhino and mammoth hides. One could tell she was rather jolly, a large belly sloshing around, but with thick, hard arms, fleshing tightly against her garments, her form being menacing at best. A huge stone mace was pulled from her back, swinging in large cleaves to the little magnataur. She growled fiercly, shredding their numbers slowly. Cleaves, grunts, and jerks. She knew what she was doing. The fight turned back up on the Taunka's side, the numbers completely even, this outrageously huge fight starting again, as the Taunka fought ruthlessly, being trampled back down. Mustadar charged a chain lightning spell, charging two magnataur to their deaths with electricity, a few taunka hopping over the corpses, and jumping right into the Magnataur's numbers, never to be seen again. The burned, torn corpses of his brothers wreaked havoc on the boy, putting him into a blind rage, finally noticing that he, and three braves were the only ones left. He cursed this day, never speaking of it to anyone. It was the day he died. He never did see Grish again, nor did he find a mourning wife, or a dead wendigo. For all he knows, he's insane and just thinking this all up. Acherus: The Ebon Hold "A Brave. That is what we were called. We were called this for the specific obsession of the idea. No fear. No cowardice. No turning back. No lies." -Rolor to his son, Mustadar Many find waking up after a horrible day to be a great reboot to their daily lives. In time of despair, the simpleness of morning, and the tiny gifts that follow it are a godsend. Mustadar woke up, extremely dizzy, and half hysterical, as most Knights were. Follow the battle for Light's Hope, Mustadar regained his free will when Darion challenged him. In his rage, he turned to the Scourge, thinking them his only existence. Upon a brief encounter with Darion, he decidedly reconsidered, and joined his brothers in the Ebon Blade. Being resurrected didn't entirely leave this fellow's mind fully in tact. Often having difficulty standing upright, or walking in a straight line, his motor functions are screwy. Atop all of this, he has the habit of talking to himself, and becoming overly defensive when caught doing so. He finds his new life rather quaint, grinding out a bit of profit, and screaming orders harshly to his privates. Meaning his regiment. In the Arena 'Random quote from Russel Crowe" -Russel Crowe In the days of nothing to do, he was found by a raging alcoholic Goblin, who asked his service as a gladiator in Orgrimmar. He would sigh, knowing nothing better to do. His first few days were preparing for his first battle, against a slave. The shaman was going to be a hard opponent, and he knew he would have to do all he could to destroy him. Practicing in the expertise of spell interruptions and immunities, he became quite adept in his studies. When the day came, he was thrown onto the field. The draenei stared at him as the walked closer, and closer into the ring. Closer, closer, they bowed. Turning back to walk to their ends, the shaman turned midway, blasting Musta in the back with a blast of searing hot lava. The spell shredded through his armor, damaging his back severely. He turned, and death gripped the traitorous caster, intercepting his arrival with a quick cleave to the side, mortallying wounding his stomach. He was the first Death Knight gladiator to step foot in that ring. It was no wonder no one knew what to expect. The next few months were excellent victory after excellent victory. His final battle came, through his riches. A rogue. His most hated enemy. They approached, and bowed. After turning, and returning to their respected sides, the forsaken disappeared. He walked into the middle of ring, cackling. "Is this it!? A cowar-" In the instant, the rogue knocked him on the head with the pommel of his dagger, stabbing him into the back. The Taunka turned swiftly, freezing his blood. The battle had begun. The turn ripped the dagger from the Rogue's hand, leaving it into his back. Cleave after cleave, dodge after dodge, the rogue's back was to the wall. He kicked dirt at the taunka. He screamed, covering his eyes. The rogue jumped, grabbing onto one of the spikes at the Taunka's shoulder, swinging around and onto his back. He stabbed mercilessely at Mustadar's back, before being stuck against the wall, inbetween Musta and it. He screamed, dropping his blade, trying to push the Taunka off of him. Something ruptured. Whatever the hell it was, it was broken open, and blood spurted from his waist and mouth. Musta stood forward, turning, and impaling the rogue, picking the blade up, and flicking him off it to the center of the ring. A victory, but it left him scarred, and extremely careful of keeping his back open to people. Never in his life did he feel so caught off guard and vulnerable. Dread Commander of Acherus "Brave of Northrend long ago, Warrior, Death Knight, Lord of the Riders, a spear of terror in the hand of Darion, shadow of despair." -Skarim After many successes as a major in the North, and playing somewhat of a signifigant role in the Ebon Watch, the taunka was called back to serve Acherus. The six months he spent in Northrend were hell, seeing horrors he can never forget, doing things he enjoyed, of course. He took a particular hating to the illogical thought process of the Scarlet Onslaught, enjoying seeing their idiotic asses impales. Quite Literally. His ship back to the Undercity, and eventual journey to the Ebon Hold lead him back to his -real- home. His brothers surrounded him, cheering in raspy and ghastly tones, the taunka unknowing still of why he was summoned. Darion called him to give him the opportunity to command an entire legion of Death Knights, to replace the late Nicandros Lindemann. Nicandros had been heard of by Mustadar, despising him for his weakness and lack of leadership skills. The regiment was in need of serious work, dipping well below borderline active numbers. The knights' morale was low, and the death of their beloved friend, not commander, Nicandros left them grieving, but angry. Mustadar was overjoyed at his proposal, taking it swifty, and establishing key diplomatic positions amongst the order's allies. Soon, he began training his knights to become complete masters at formations he was taught in Ebon Watch, barking loudly through his coarse vocal coords. Battle at Northridge Lumber Camp The night was quiet, Mustadar left his men with a faithful speech, speeding down to Thondroril river. The knights were restless, getting into their ranks slowly, complaining about their circumstances, and impatiently starting fights with one another. Mustadar set up camp near the crossing from the Western Plaguelands's main road, into Hearthglen, a roaring fire keeping the knights warm, killing a huge spider to feed their hungry stomachs. After getting ready for their march, the commander brought with him more reinforcements, and marching out into the wasted, and tumor filled forest to hunt the scarlets surrounding the camp beside the mill. "Knights of Acherus! CHARGE! LEAVE NOTHING BUT ASHES IN YOUR TERRIBLE WAKE!" Mustadar's first commanded battle was under way, his knights slaughtering and burning the corpses of each scarlet. The men began talking of a challenge. "First to ten red haired scalps wins rations for the next week!" The horrible sound of metal upon searing hot flesh sounds through the canyon, death and decay spurting our from all the land, and desintegrating the corpses of the fallen. Mustadar lead a charge, slicing a scarlet into two with one cleave of his mighty rune-blade, Nicandros. Soon, the small brigade sent to deal with the onslaught was quelled, and the lumber mill was lit ablaze. Smoke rose from that place for three hours, the Third Legion leaving it quickly, to avoid the entirety of Hearthglen emptying. Mustadar took note that no Fifth Scarlet Vanguard filth were there, not bearing their marks. Soon after this, civilians desperately tried to put out the flames, dumping drinking water onto the mill. Nothing but the metal ruts, and posts were left, all lumber stores depleted. With Hearthglen at a loss for specific resources, and cold nights accompanying this, it seem vulnerable. But, what of Skarim, and his vanguard? Mustadar suspects they're doing something more sinister, closer to the Forsaken. Unfortunately, their scouts are limited. An assault for Hearthglen is currently very anticipated.